The Winter Deaths
by Anawey
Summary: Watson and Holmes are out on a dangerous case far from London in the German countryside. In the dead of winter, with snowstorms and blizzards keeping them in place, what happens when things go from bad to worse, and Watson is injured and Holmes falls int
1. Take The Case

The Winter Deaths

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Watson and Holmes are out on a dangerous case far from London in the German countryside. In the dead of winter, with snowstorms and blizzards keeping them in place, what happens when things go from bad to worse, and Watson is injured and Holmes falls into the grips of illness?

Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes, Watson, and 221B Baker Street.

Take the Case

XxX

I sighed. Another morning at 221B Baker Street. The only difference; I was not sure if it was the smell of breakfast, or the hoarse coughing that woke me.

I was up, in my dressing gown, and moving into the sitting room as quickly as a man can go at seven in the morning (though I, unlike my flatmate Holmes, quite liked mornings; especially in the winter, when all is covered in sparkling white).

Holmes was on the sofa, a very old-looking book in his hands, dust floating in front of his face, nearly choking on the particles.

"Holmes?"

He looked up when I spoke, and aside from the slightest flush to his cheeks, he seemed oddly pale.

The coughing slowly abated, and was followed quickly by a rough sneeze.

"Bless you," I offered, a bit surprised at the bit of listlessness in his eyes.

The sniff that accompanied the sneeze sounded rather wet stuffy, and I began to wonder if there was more than the book's dust making him cough so.

"Holmes, are you alright?"

He shrugged, setting the book aside, and leaning back into the sofa.

"Quite, Watson," he assured, blinking for a moment, as though something affected his sight.

Well, however tired he may have been, his brisk manner was still quite as strong as ever.

I could not be certain he was telling me the truth, but then, there was not enough evidence for me to doubt him, either, so I sat down in my armchair across from him.

"What book is that?" I asked, indicating the rather large tome on the end table.

Holmes started slightly, as though his mind had been elsewhere.

"Hm? Oh, an old thing I found last night," he replied absently. "It was tucked in the back of the closet – "

He was cut off by a second coughing fit, that I was sure wasn't caused by book-dust.

"Holmes, are you _certain _you're well, man?" I asked, frowning (never before had I known Sherlock Holmes to look so out of sorts and unwell). "You're looking awfully pale."

Again, he waved off my concern, shaking his head.

"It's nothing to worry over, dear fellow," he said once more. "I.... simply had a poor sleep last night."

If I had known then what I do now, I should have never let him take that case which intruded in that moment upon our morning.

There was a desperate knocking on the front door, and Holmes and I exchanged glances.

Footsteps sounded up the stairs, and Mrs. Hudson appeared with an odd looking man in tow.

He was dressed in tall boots, a rather expensive-looking fur-collard greatcoat, and a pointed pickelhaube on his head.

His face was ruddy from the cold winter air outside beneath the dark whiskers of his chin, and his beetle eyes glanced uncertainly around the room.

"Vich vone of you is Herr Holmes?" he asked, his accents thick. When he talked, his moustache wiggled.

"That would be I," Holmes spoke from his chair, raising his hand to indicate that he had spoken (I still wonder if it was just my imagination that his voice sounded a trifle hoarse). "Won't you sit?"

"Herr Holmes," the rather round German officer – for I recognized his accent and the origins of his pickelhaube hat – began, moving further into the room. "I am Officer Kreuger, and I vould greatly appreciate it if ve vere to speak alone."

Mrs. Hudson had already left the room before the German spoke, and I stood to go as well, but Holmes stopped me.

"Do stay, Watson," he insisted, catching my sleeve as I walked past. There was something in his eyes that I could not name. "I would be quite lost, as I have said before, without my Boswell."

I smiled slightly, and returned to my chair.

"My friend and colleague, Dr. Watson," Holmes introduced. From my place, I smiled at the man. "And I can assure you, anything you say will be kept confidential, will it not, my dear Watson?"

"As always," I replied, nodding.

"Pray do tell your reasons for calling on us, sir," Sherlock Holmes said, looking to the German officer, who nodded, looking concerned and a bit flustered.

"Yes," the German sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "There have been.... occurrences.... of late in the village vhere I live. The noble family who lives there ask that you come to help."

"What kind of occurrences, Mr. Kreuger?" Holmes questioned, eyes glinting slightly.

"Murders, Herr Detective," Kreuger replied, his voice low. "Local vine makers, who vork for the Baron Stuber."

Again, my companions eyes glimmered with interest and that un-nameable something more.

"And is there any idea why these wine makers should be targeted?" he asked. "Or by whom? And how?"

Kreuger shook his head.

"None vhatsoever," he sighed. "But the Baron has asked that you solve this for us."

I recognized the look in Holmes's eyes all too well. No ideas as to how or why a murder was committed _always _interested the great Sherlock Holmes.

"There are absolutely no suspects, then?" Holmes pressed.

Again, Kreuger motioned in the negative.

"None."

Holmes looked at me, and though he still looked a bit pale, and I could see the signs of a restless night in his eyes, there was a determination in them.

He would take this case; his interest had been piqued, and there was nothing that would stop him.

To be truthfully honest, I knew a moment of excitement. Like Holmes, I often enjoyed the challenges of the cases he took on. They provided some release from what otherwise would be a rather monotonous life.

The two men stood, and Holmes assured him that, by the end of the week, he and I would be on our way to the small German province – the name of which escapes me to this day, it's pronunciation giving no aid – to solve the murders.

"Rest assured, sir," Holmes was saying. "We will discover the particulars of the case, and bring the criminal to justice."

"Thank you, Herr Holmes," Kreuger smiled, pumping Holmes's hands heartily, clearly very grateful.

When Kreuger had left, Holmes sank into his chair with a sigh.

The listlessness that seemed to roll off of him in waves was uncharacteristic, and I could quite clearly see that he had indeed spent a poor night.

"Holmes," said I , careful with my words, for Sherlock Holmes was, if nothing else, a very proud, stubborn man, "perhaps you ought to go back to bed for a spell? You look like you could use more sleep."

My only answer was a quiet snore.

Mrs. Hudson came in with breakfast, and I sat back in my chair, taking a sip of my tea.

Our good landlady smiled when she saw Holmes, curled in his chair, long legs tucked up like a little child, sleeping soundly.

"He's been needing more sleep for quite some time," she whispered, so as not to wake him. I agreed.

The last case had been a rather tricky one. Not so much difficult as tedious; the villain was easy enough to discover, but deucedly difficult to catch, and poor Holmes had expended far too much of himself attempting to chase him down.

The criminal had only been put into prison yesterday, and his capture the night before that had been executed in a freezing downpour which had turned to hail before long.

In short, Holmes – who had gone alone, as I was stuck at home with a very serious case myself – had been soaked 'to the bone, and _right bloody through it,' _as Mrs. Hudson had told me when I'd returned that morning.

Asleep, he looked himself. The paleness seemed to have left him completely, and though it made me wary, I was more than willing to believe him that it was simply from a poor night's sleep and nothing else.

Exhaustion could make a man look nearly as bad as if he were ill.

And so, I had learned, could the death of someone said man loved.

But it has now been a good several years since the Falls. Indeed, if not for the note I still have stored in the second left draw of my desk, I should have thought it all a dream the morning after he'd returned to me.

Now, however, is not the time to dwell on moments already accounted for. Now, is the time to chronicle the current case, and all that neither Holmes nor I foresaw.

Holmes slept for several hours. I did not need to go to my practice, it being a Sunday, and so, I sat back in my chair with a book.

He made an effort to stay awake when luncheon was brought by Mrs. Hudson, and the strange paleness stayed gone, so I thought little of it.

That evening, as he usually did, Holmes played his violin. He was prone to do so whenever the idea to struck him, be it at four in the afternoon, or one in the morning.

When he began to cough again around eight, I insisted he not run himself ragged. He had given Kreuger the end of the week because there was still the criminal's trial, and some small thing would likely turn up in that time.

"I'm quite alright, my dear Watson," Holmes refused lightly, shaking his head. "I merely swallowed a dust particle or some other such thing. Nothing to worry over."

I was not convinced, but, like a fool, I let the matter be. Holmes could be dreadfully stubborn when it came to his health.

Had I but known what was to come, I would never have been so at ease in that sitting room. Indeed, the case ahead of us would prove to be quite something.

Why, in the name of Heaven, I did not try to keep him from taking it, is quite beyond me.

XxX

Chapter one is finished. I hope you all like it, as it _is _my first Holmes story. I just tonight read The Final Problem, and am still reading 'The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,' so I'm no expert. But I'll try to keep them in character from what I've read – and the kick-butt new movie (wasn't that just the most awesome movie _ever?!?! _Gladstone is the funniest dog I've ever seen).

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed it, and no, for those of you who know my writing, the Phantom stories are not going to fade out, I promise. Sherlock and Erik are sharing space. Not peacefully, of course, but they _are _sharing.

Review, please!


	2. To Watch and To Wait

To Watch and To Wait

XxX

Holmes had most _definitely _become ill. When I came home from my practice the next day, and heard the string of rough sneezes, followed by a fit of hoarse coughs, I knew he was.

I was in the sitting room at once, and there he was, bent forward in his chair, panting slightly.

There was no wheeze, though, which meant it couldn't be anything in his chest, and that was a comfort.

I'd had to deal with several cases of chest colds and mild pneumonia today at my practice, and I'd no desire to deal with another – especially not when the patient is my friend.

"Holmes?"

He turned to look at me, and I could see that he was rather pale, even for him (his skin was naturally quite light; a rather stark contrast to his black hair).

There was a slight surprise in his eyes, and I knew it was because he'd not expected me back so early.

I went first to the side table, and poured him a glass of water. Holmes frowned, but I could see in his eyes that he was grateful, whether he would admit it or not.

He took the glass silently, drinking and remaining silent for a long moment. Only the slightest nod was my thank you, but I understood.

"You look _ill, _Holmes," I muttered, worried; for he did indeed look sickly.

"It is nothing, Watson," he replied. "As I said yesterday. Just an aller – "

He was cut off by an explosive sneeze.

"Bless you," I replied. "And _allergies, _Holmes, do not produce low-grade fevers."

Holmes raised an eyebrow at me, his eyes wide, but a congratulatory smile broke over his face.

"Finally learned to deduce, eh, my dear Watson?" he smirked.

I rolled my eyes.

"Holmes, the flush on your face is not from embarrassment," I sighed. "Even a child could see that you are not well."

He protested quietly, without any real conviction. It was that, more than anything, that convinced me he was unwell, and that it was a good thing he'd given us until Friday.

If only I'd insisted he postpone the case until I was sure this cold of his were safely behind us!

Ah, but I did not realize then what troubles were to come for Holmes and myself.

As the day progressed, I could see that, in small ways, he grew worse, and I could only hope then that it would not lead to worse (again, if only I knew then what I know now).

It was sundown, and after a particularly nasty string of coughs, intermingled with several sharp sneezes, that I believed I witnessed a thing I'd never expected.

"Watson," Holmes groaned, his voice hoarse, "I think, dear fellow, that I am ill."

I looked at him, and rolled my eyes.

"Get to bed, Holmes," I sighed. "You'll need to rest if you want to be ready for this case, old man."

Holmes regarded me with uncharacteristically weary eyes, and, muttering tiredly that he did not intend to move, curled up on the sofa without another word.

I would have at once gotten him up and off to his room, but I knew my friend. Once awake, Holmes was one who could not easily return to sleep.

The sofa may not be the best place for rest, but it would do for tonight, at any rate.

Indeed, he seem a bit better the next morning; he was not coughing as much, and the sneezing had decreased in frequency, but his fever was still there, low though it was.

On Wednesday, I came home from my practice to hear voices. I only had to go halfway up the stairs to know who Holmes was talking to.

The question was, how had Wiggins and Edward found out at all about the upcoming case?

"We want ta come wif ya, Mr. 'Olmes," Wiggins said, in a tone that sounded as though Holmes had just refused them.

"We won' get in the way," I heard Ed offer. "_Please, _Mr. 'Olmes?"

"Absolutely not. This case is much too dangerous, boys, and you'll be needed here."

There was an odd hoarseness to Holmes's voice when he spoke, and I realized that a good four days of coughing must finally have started taking effect on his throat.

"But –"

"Mr. Holmes is right, boys," I said, coming into the room. "No 'buts' about it, Wiggins, Edward. It is not safe for the two of you to accompany us so far away, and you will be sorely missed. Run along, boys. Mr. Holmes isn't feeling well."

They both looked stricken.

"Mr. 'Olmes?!" Wiggins gasped. "_Ill?!"_

"Blimey!" Edward agreed.

"Wot can we do to 'elp, Dr. Watson?" Wiggins asked.

I tried not to be angry with the boys. After all, they wanted to help Holmes. The fact remained, however, that they were both young, and sure to get underfoot. I was already stressed from a trying day, and my leg was throbbing from the cold outside. I had no desire to deal with the Irregulars now, nor did I have the patients, and I really did not wish to snap at such well-meaning children.

"I think I've got him taken care of, Wiggins," I replied, hoping I did not sound short. "Go on home, boys. I promise, by tomorrow, Mr. Holmes will be much better."

It was clear that neither wanted to leave, but then Wiggins nodded, and pulled a protesting Edward off after him.

Looking at Holmes, I saw that, though he was a bit hoarse, his color was returning, and his face was not as flushed as yesterday.

I began to think that nothing would come of this; that it would be put out of memory as just an unimportant, obscure winter chill.

How I wish that had been the case!

"How did Edward and Wiggins know about the case?" I asked.

Holmes shrugged.

'They were in the area when Kreuger came by," he replied, clearing his throat.

I nodded. The whole thing was easy to piece together; Wiggins and Alfie had been wandering again, and had seen the German officer enter our apartment, and had gotten curious.

Thursday, when Holmes came into the sitting room, he was looking much his usual self (I still wonder today if it was simply that he'd recovered, or if he'd used that wretched drug of his to feign alertness).

Sleepy, yes, but very much the Holmes I knew.

"Good morning, Watson" he smiled, dropping unceremoniously into his chair, as was his wont. It was nice to see the fellow back to himself.

"Holmes," replied I.

There was a positively cheerful mood to the room that morning. Holmes was better, and though we still had that trial to attend, it did not matter.

The day was not unseasonably warm, but it was certainly more-so than the last couple of weeks.

As we walked, several young voices raised and drew closer. When we turned, there were several of Holmes's Irregulars, lead by Nat.

'Nat,' or Natalia, as her given name went, was perhaps the most energetic of the Irregulars, besides Wiggins and Edward. She took it upon herself to be the watcher of the littler ones, unless the case was interesting enough. In such instances, she made certain the children were well-watched, and headed out on reconnaissance for that case before returning to her role of babysitter.

Her hair was a very dark brown, almost black, her skin lightly tanned from a life out-of-doors. She'd only come to London a few years ago, the earlier years of her life being lived up in the Scottish Highlands, in some small village.

At fifteen, she was very quick witted, and swift on her feet. Tall and well-proportioned, she was very good at moving without being caught.

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes," she greeted, smiling.

That smile, however, turned to slight concern as she glanced Holmes over.

"Feelin' a tad under the weather there, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes offered a wry smile.

Nat had been fascinated with Holmes's deduction methods ever since he'd figured out just what part of Scotland she hailed from on their first meeting by dress, hair color, and just how thick her brogue was.

One of the youngest, little Wilson, looked up at her with wide eyes.

"Blimey!" the boy gasped. "'Ow'd you figur that out, Nat?"

Natalia smiled indulgently.

"D'yeh see how Mr. Holmes is hold'n' 'is coat round him?" she asked. Wilson and the other little boys nodded. "When someone holds their coat round them that tight, it means the cold's gettin' to 'em. Could be a number o' reasons; poor circulation, for one. But, as 'tis Mr. Holmes, I'd wager it's that he's been a sight ill the last few days. After all; Mr. Holmes is _never _sensitive to cold unless he's ill."

The little boys all made exclamations of wonder at their proverbial shepherd's skills, but she remained humble, despite their praise, reminding them that it was _Holmes _who'd taught her.

It was known among the Irregulars, and to Holmes and myself, that Nat was not a child of the street like the others. Her family was not wealthy, but they'd enough money that she went daily to school, and only became an Irregular once her day's homework was done.

That particular arrangement had been made in return that Holmes and I _not _tell her parents what she was up to most afternoons.

"Where are you headed?" I asked. The boys she was with were too young to be directly involved in a case, and there was none simplistic – or safe – enough for them to be led around by the elder ones in attempts to be of service.

"I'm takin' these runts to the library," she answered, her eyes sparking. If not the thrill of helping Holmes, Nat loved books. "They need to learn t' read somewhere, don' they?"

"A noble undertaking," Holmes spoke approvingly. "I do hope you all enjoy yourselves."

Nat nodded, and with a swift goodbye, she and her flock of children were gone.

"It's always nice to see that girl," Holmes mused. "Wouldn't you say, Watson?"

I nodded. Nat was not one to conform and follow society's standards for her sex, but she was kind, and intelligent. A good person to have on your side.

The trial was rather lackluster, considering the difficulty in apprehending the criminal. He was convicted, and given his sentence within three hours, and by teatime Holmes and I were nearly at our door again.

Holmes sighed as he sat in his armchair, and I glanced briefly at him.

"That," he said flatly, almost disappointedly, "was decidedly _boring."_

"Even though it was just what we wanted?" I reminded him, almost wanting to laugh at the slight whine I heard in his voice.

Holmes spared me a momentary glare before turning to the fire.

"We're leaving tomorrow," he said after a long moment. "Not too long, I should think, but still indefinite. Will your practice survive?"

I nodded.

"While I'm gone, the patients can see Anstruther. He's not so bad a doctor."

Holmes muttered in agreement.

"Watson," he began suddenly, without turning to me. "Perhaps you ought to stay. Murders –"

"No."

I was not about to simply leave him to danger. Especially not when he'd just been quite sick yesterday. And no one would know him in Germany. Should anything happen to him, no one would know a thing about who to contact. I would never see him again, in other words.

No. That did not appeal to me in the slightest.

"I shall accompany you, Holmes," said I, determined. "Or neither of us will go."

Holmes looked at me for a long while, slight shock in his eyes. I had the power to back my ultimatum, and he knew it.

After a span of some seconds, he let out a wry chuckle.

"Seems I shall never be rid of you, old fellow. Will I?"

I shook my head, smiling slightly.

Stubborn Holmes may be, but so was I. I was not about to let him run off to Germany so shortly after being ill without someone there beside him. I would never forgive myself if I let him go alone and he contracted bronchitis, or pneumonia.

No, he was not going anywhere without me.

Mrs. Hudson appeared then with the tea tray, and when I poured my cup, the steaming drink sent warmth flowing up my arms. It was a wonderful sensation after the briskness of the outside.

As I packed that night, my thoughts went ahead of me to that small German village, Friel-something-or-other, and a strange knot of foreboding began to form.

So far from home. Who would know if Holmes or I were hurt? No one but people who spoke an entirely different language than we did. It spelled disaster, and some part of me knew it.

But it was too close to convince Holmes not to go. He was already finished with his packing, and sleeping in his bed.

I, on the other hand, was nowhere near sleep.

For however long we were to be in Germany, there would be little more for me to do than watch, and wait. If anything were to go amiss, I would make Holmes leave.

After all, this was not exactly our fight. And while Holmes took cases from just about anyone, anywhere, Germany, in my opinion, was a stretch.

Never a truer sentiment expressed, I have since come to learn.

XxX

Chapter two! I'm really glad everyone likes this so much. Thanks all! Review, please!


	3. On the Train to Ramsgate

Note: Guys, as I post this, I just watched the 2002 Hound of the Baskervilles. It's about quarter after seven here, and dark out. Sometimes, distant cars sound like howling hounds.

....meep.....

Oh well. I guess that'll teach me to watch creepy movies alone in the dark, eh?

Though, between Baskervilles and American Werewolf in London, let's just say, if I'm ever back in England for a second go, I'm staying well away from any moors. Heh, heh...

I really am glad everyone likes my story so far. I mean, I've only read a handful of Doyle's work (twelve short stories about Holmes and Watson), and I've seen the movie, but it was mostly from the fanfics that I got the feel for how close they were.

Again, I'm glad you're all enjoying reading this. I know I'm enjoying writing it. And now, on to the story!

On the Train to Ramsgate  
XxX

It was raining quite heavily when we left Baker Street on Friday morning. We both had with us our umbrellas, but it was the oppressive atmosphere, and the dim-yet-growing sense of dread that bothered me most.

At the time, I could not understand my concerns at all. Holmes was well (I believed), and there was no indication that this was something we could not handle.

Ah, the things we learn in hindsight.

Holmes was in an oddly pleasant mood, and proceeded to ramble on; describing to me just about every pedestrian we passed. He determined status, occupation, personality – once even someone's married life – based on just their appearances, and their gestures as they spoke to some other person.

"Take the girl there, Watson, dear fellow," Holmes was saying, pointing to a bright-eyed, brown haired lass who laughed and looked up at an older, black-haired man with a smile. "She's still in her teens – no older than seventeen, I should think. She plays an instrument – low brass, I believe, euphonium, likely, if the way she carries her left arm is any indication..."

I was only half-listening to his cheerful prattling. The book in my hands was reaching its intriguing climax, and I was, though I should never admit it to Holmes, more interested in that than his deducing random strangers.

However entertaining it could sometimes be.

"... Her eyes suggest a bright, sunny nature, as does so bright the smile. She's quite close to that man she is with, I'd say. A teacher, I see."

That caused me to look up for the briefest of moments.

"He could very well be her father, Holmes," I replied.

Holmes shook his head.

"No, Watson," he argued. "There is no facial resemblance at all. And it would be quite against society's rules for a lady her age – any age, really – to be alone in the company of a gentleman without him being a relative, or legitimate guardian of some sort. My guess would be he is her music instructor, as well as guardian."

Now _that _was a stretch.

"How can you deduce that?" I asked, slowly gaining interest in his observations.

Holmes laughed.

"His are the fingers of a pianist, my dear Watson," he enlightened, smiling all the while.

Our ride to the station carried on entirely in this singular fashion.

The train was set to leave as we boarded, finding ourselves in a compartment that was rather abandoned, save for an old man, and a young woman with two very small children.

Neither Holmes nor I saw the tall, oddly shaped man stumbling left and right as he attempted to board the train.

I am still unsure whether to be glad we didn't.

Holmes could sleep anywhere. Within two hours, he was snoring softly – we'd left our rooms in Baker Street at five this morning to catch the train so that we would be in Ramsgate by nightfall, ready to take the next day's ferry to Oostende, in Belgium.

It had been Holmes's idea to go from Ramsgate. Perhaps because that particular port's ferry route brought us the closest to the distant German village of any.

As Holmes slept, I read. For some time, there was peace, but then the back door to the compartment slid loudly open as a tall man stumbled through, and fell, sprawling to reveal two boys in a man's overcoat and hat.

The commotion woke Holmes, who, after staring about in confusion for half a second, rounded on Wiggins and Edward.

"What do you think you're _doing?!" _he demanded, growling. "Did I _not _tell you that this case was too dangerous? Did I not?!"

Edward's eyes were wide. I don't believe he'd ever seen Holmes this angry.

"Well? Out with it boys! What in _blazes _are you two doing here?"

Ed squeaked, too frightened in the face of Holmes's fury to stay silent.

"Wiggins said we should follow yew!" he whimpered. "Please don' tell Ma!"

Holmes frowned deeply at the boys.

"Fine," he sighed, passing a hand over his eyes. "When the train reaches Ramsgate, you _both _will be staying on for the return trip. If you try to follow us, I _will _notify your families. Understood?"

Edward nodded quickly, his head bouncing on his neck. Wiggins agreed to Holmes's terms as well, but much more reluctantly. There was a pout in his eyes, and his brows were furrowed.

Holmes turned away from them, leaning his head against the window with another quiet sigh.

"Holmes?" I asked, concerned. Perhaps he was not as well as I thought? Perhaps he was merely hiding his illness for the sake of the case?

Fool.

If he was, I'd make sure he got well, alright.

Then I'd thrash him from here to Kingdom Come.

Truth be told, I still may, when all is said and done.

"Tired," he muttered dismissively, his eyes closing as he continued to lean against the glass window of the train.

'Tired' was not surprising. Holmes had been up later than I last night, and had woken earlier (indeed, later I would learn that he had not slept at all that final night before the beginning of our journey).

No doubt the reader may be wondering why I have yet to mention Officer Kreuger (once more, had I known what I know, I should never have let Holmes leave Baker Street, let alone London, much less all of England).

This is because Holmes had suggested he return home, and that we would meet him in Oostende, which was not so very far from our destination; perhaps a day or two.

For the remainder of the ride, I kept a close watch on Ed and Wiggins. There was no doubt in my mind that they would try to follow us. For all Holmes could read my thoughts, he could not determine the minds – or the level of loyalty – his little Irregulars had.

A letter to their relatives would not be enough to dissuade Wiggins, and he, in turn, would convince Edward to come along with him.

As this could not be allowed, I kept a sharp watch on those boys. Perhaps closer than I ought, for I spared not a glance at Holmes, I am shamed to admit (there are several things I might have seen that would have prevented our current situation had I been more watchful of him). But, to my knowledge, he was quite alright, and did not need me hovering. Holmes was, if nothing else, a man who liked his privacy.

Eventually, the boys, too, slept, and I alone of our party was awake. My book had long since lost its appeal, and so I turned to staring out the windows at the passing countryside.

Small farmlands dotted the landscape, as well as the occasional small village. Sunset was coming swiftly on, and, as our train had taken a northerly bend, I could see the sky turned to vibrant reds and pinks and oranges, as well as several shades of purple.

The clouds were tinged red, and for an instant, I thought it resembled blood.

At the time I thought I'd just been a bit morbid at that precise moment. Now, however, I wonder very much whether it was an omen of things to come.

But, as I have said, I thought nothing of it in that moment, and so, I turned my glance to the land and the houses we passed.

Soon, we would be in a hotel in Ramsgate, and tomorrow, we would be sailing for Belgium, and from there, traveling via train once more to Waldstadt, apparently the closest town with a train station to our destination.

It struck me then, for a passing moment, what troubles we might face, alone in a country where most did not speak our language, should one of us be hurt, or if Holmes's cold were to come back.

Infernal irony that I did not think more of it then.

Holmes woke when the train stopped, and together, we took Wiggins and Edward to the conductor, explaining that the two boys had snuck on, in an attempt to follow us from London.

Holmes payed for their return tickets, and we left the boys in the conductor's care before disembarking the train, and looking about ourselves at the little port of Ramsgate.

It was not hard to find an inn in the small city. There was but one room available, two beds, and as such, there was no problem. Holmes's pride would allow him to share space for a night, but neither of us wanted to be discovered in one bed in the morning by a maid.

"I expect we'll have another long day tomorrow," I commented quietly.

Holmes cleared his throat – in such a way, I now know, I should have been much more suspicious of – before answering.

"Most likely, my dear fellow," he replied, taking off his shoes.

As I lay awake some time later, I could hear Holmes in the next bed, sleeping soundly.

Something plagued me about this trip. I had no reason for why, but I was very suddenly reminded of the incident out on Grimpen Moors, with the Baskerville Hound. I had never told Holmes, of course, but the legend made me slightly uneasy to this day.

Why I thought of it, I think I know now. It was possibly meant as a warning. Should I have spoken to Holmes? Would it have changed a thing?

No. Of course not. Sherlock Holmes _never _gave up on a case. No, no matter what I said in warning, Holmes would continue. He would suggest I go home, but he knew I never would.

Though, the _last _time I'd come with him to the continent, I'd left it alone, believing for the next three years, that my best and truest friend was dead.

For the first time in several years, when I fell asleep, such were the thoughts in my mind – that wretched hound that had plagued the Baskervilles would give me no peace – that I dreamed of that night on the moors, and woke shaking.

I closed my eyes for a long moment to collect myself, and took a deep breath before glancing around the room.

It was morning, certainly, but early. So early that even Holmes was still sleeping on, despite his having mentioned our morning ferry ride.

Indeed, my guess from last night was correct.

It proved to be a _very _long day.

XxX

Yay, chapter three!

I'm still rather spooked about Baskervilles. I mean, I know it's just a story, but the idea of someone being as nutty as Stapleton isn't that far-fetched, and we all know animal cruelty is, rather unfortunately, alive and well despite efforts to stop it.

And I'm pretty sure I just heard a bark not half a minute ago.

It _really _doesn't help that there are a bunch of dogs living in my area....

Oh well. Not like any of them can break a window.

I hope you all liked the chapter. Review, please!


	4. Across the Channel

Sorry it's been so long, guys. Computer issues dissolved into sidetracked.

Across the Channel  
XxX

As I sat at the breakfast table in a corner of the little inn's great room, Holmes paced in front of the nearest window.

A telegram had come from Kreuger.

Developments had been made, and the officer was sure now how the murders had been committed; a point-blank shot from a revolver, to the back of the head.

The postmortem pictures suggested a systematic approach to each death.

And there was the question of _why _wine makers, and why only the ones who worked for the Baron Stuber?

All this had passed through my mind, and was, no doubt, being given immense attention by my friend.

"Holmes, _do _stop pacing," I sighed. It was beginning to make _me _dizzy. "You need to eat something."

"No," Holmes responded absently. "I need to think. There must be something, some _reason. _It is a cover-up. But by whom? And of what? Presumably, these wine makers knew something that was not meant to get out."

He continued his wretched pacing, one long, thin finger tapping against his upper lip, a small frown of concentration etched into the faint lines of his face.

Holmes was on to something, though, at the time, neither of us knew quite what.

...

...

The docks were quite crowded that morning, and several times, I had to clutch at Holmes's sleeve so as not to lose him in the throngs. Why so many were on the waterfront in this cold weather was beyond me.

Holmes, though, seemed to take no notice.

It had only been just over a day since he'd gotten over his cold, and I had insisted he dress warmly. Of course, he did not seem to care in the slightest that it was absolutely frigid; his overcoat was open, and his dark gray scarf was only loosely hung around his neck.

There were many things I had forgiven him for - could, and _did_ forgive him for - but I would never forgive Holmes his complete lack of care over his own health.

But nothing I could say would change his mind. Holmes always learned things the hard way.

At one point, I had the strange sensation of eyes on our backs, and I turned, only to see the surging

crowds all around us.

"Watson?"

I started, having not realized Holmes noticed my suspicions.

I shook my head.

"Nothing," said I, turning my attention back to what we were doing. "It almost felt as though we were being watched."

"It certainly would not surprise me," Holmes replied. "In fact, it would quite disappoint and disillusion me to the case if they did not."

"My dear Holmes!"

Holmes chuckled quietly.

"Yes, Watson," said he, grinning slightly. "If the murderer had not sent someone to shadow our movements, it would have shown that they were too stupid to elude detection. Come along, old fellow, that's our ship, there."

The ferry was an old sailing ship that had surely long been out of service (there were gun squares in the sides for cannons that had been covered over with glass, presumably the space beyond turned into cabins).

She looked out of place among the little steamships around, with her tall masts, and billowing sails, ready to catch the wind, and pull her into the deep waters of the Channel.

Holmes presented our tickets to the guard, and we hurried up the gangplank just as the ship was getting ready to sail.

As we stood on deck, I looked around at the other passengers. For the briefest of seconds, I thought I saw a familiar head of long brown hair, accompanied by two other recognizable figures. When I blinked and looked again, there was nothing.

It was not as if it could only have been Nat, Edward, and Wiggins. No, it could have been any three children. Brown hair was a common enough thing, as was blond.

I may yet be glad I did not speak of the apparition to Holmes.

...

...

Scarcely two hours into our voyage, and the clouds I'd seen on the horizon broke with a mighty crash of thunder, and the heavens poured down upon us with a vengeance.

The now rough seas obligated me to perform my duties as physician, thus, I was kept busy going from cabin to cabin to fight seasickness.

It was no wonder so many were made ill by the storm. The waves were roiling a good ten feet at some instances.

I had always known that where the Channel met the North Sea, the waters could become rough at a moment's notice, but it seemed that this storm was stronger than average.

I was making my way, trying determinedly to keep my balance (and suffering many blows against the wall to my shoulder, which only made the old wound throb unmercifully), back to my cabin across from Holmes's no earlier than sundown.

Holmes I met in the hall, leaning against the door frame, looking absolutely miserable. His normally pale face was ashen, and when he stood away from the wall, his legs shook.

"Holmes?" said I, concerned. Was he ill again?

He started, turning in my direction with wide eyes that filled with relief. Then the ship rocked, we were both sent staggering, and Holmes clutched at his stomach.

It took no more than a second to see what was wrong with him. Somehow, I'd never thought Holmes the type to get seasick easily. I'd thought, perhaps, it was simply a lingering weakness after his cold.

In any case, I was not going to let him suffer. I'd tended nearly half the ship, it was unthinkable that I should not do the same for my friend, however tired I was getting. So, I guided my friend to my cabin and sat him on the bed.

"Just a moment, Holmes," I told him, rummaging through my bag for the bicarbonate. It had been at the top, but I think the last couple of rollings of the ship had knocked it down near the bottom.

When I looked up, Holmes had managed to find a basin, and was trying to be discreet about losing the contents of his stomach.

Full of sympathy for my friend, I stood, the bottle in my hand, and crossed to the small sideboard.

I poured the water into the glass, mixed in the bicarbonate, and returned to the bed, pressing it into his hand.

He murmured a quiet 'thank you,' and when he'd finished the drink, returned to his room.

Later that night, as I lay in my bed, listening to the sounds of the storm, I suddenly wondered what was to become of Holmes and I on this case. After all, the last time we had gone together to the continent, I had left it alone, believing him dead for the next three years.

Sleep did not come for me that night. My mind had latched firmly onto the dismal, heart-wrenching memory of the Reichenbach falls, and all the horror and pain they represented for me.

For some time, I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing my mind would leave the past where it was; Holmes was _not _dead. He was sleeping in the room across from mine.

It was, perhaps, a blessing that I could not sleep that night, for at nearly two in the morning, I could hear a harsh-sounding, if faint, coughing.

It was not my own, and in this hall, there were only Sherlock and I, and so it had to be him.

I stood, drew on my dressing gown, and crossed the hall to his door. I knocked lightly, in case he were asleep still, and called his name.

I received no answer, but the coughing abated. The door was bolted, and as such I could not get in to assure myself that he was alright, but after a moment, I heard the familiar quiet snores I was used to. Satisfied, I returned to my room, and somehow, this time, I did manage to find sleep.

...

...

In the morning, I found that the storm had passed, and as Holmes still looked a bit green about the gills, I prescribed a stay up on deck to get some fresh air into him.

I had managed to get him wrapped in his overcoat, as well as a thick afghan without much difficulty, which was something the reader surely knows is usually no easy task.

Perhaps that in itself should have warned me that something was amiss, but I was too pleased to see the sickly green fade from my friend's face under the influence of the sea air.

Holmes actually managed to find some way to fall asleep, and I sat in a chair beside him, reading the novel I had brought along.

Fortunately, we did not run into any rough patches, and Holmes managed to find at least some measure of peace.

If for nothing else but his own sake, I was glad we would be docking by late afternoon.

...

...

It was not until we were pulling into the harbor that Holmes awoke. When I shook his shoulder, his eyelids fluttered, and the gray eyes blinked owlishly for a moment before the sharpness of Holmes's mind returned to them.

"We've docked?" he asked, his speech slightly slurred by his recent sleep.

I nodded, and Holmes rose to his feet. As we made our way back to the stairs down to the cabins, I thought I heard a muffled cough behind me, but there were so many people about, and when I looked to him, Holmes flashed his typical, quick smile, that I could not be certain it was him. He looked himself, and so, I let it pass.

I did not take long to pack my bags, as I had not unpacked much to begin with. Aside from my nightshirt, dressing gown, and the clothes I'd worn today, everything was in my bags already.

When I had finished packing, I sat on the edge of the bed, and thought about the case. Suddenly, I realized just what had me so on edge. The officer, Kruger, had offered coincidentally few details on the murders – surely a local law enforcer would know something about the murders.

It had unnerved me that we should be entrusting our lives to a man who might be not what he appeared. But, I reminded myself, if _I _had noticed, surely Holmes had.

XxX  
I really am sorry, guys. And now, I have so much else to take away my time again; I've started college, and I'm rehearsing for a renaissance fair. But I promise I'll do my best to keep updating.


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